


A World and Mirror of Worlds

by Dalek



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24574294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalek/pseuds/Dalek
Summary: Great A'Tuin must have gotten very, very lost this time.Gideon Nav and Harrowhark Nonagesimus have answered the Necrolord's summons. The best and brightest of the Nine Houses have assembled in the hope of becoming his bones and joints, his fists and gestures, to join the ranks of the immortal lyctors.But something is not right at Canaan House. Even less so than it was to begin with, that is. Three women have arrived, dressed in black and wearing very pointy hats indeed, claiming to be emissaries of the mysterious and secretive Tenth. They don't fit. They don't answer questions. And they're obviously up to something.Canaan House has always been a place of secrets. As paranoia mounts and trust erodes, as the bodies start piling up, it may turn out that the key to unlocking those secrets - and to keeping everyone alive - might not be necromancy, but headology.
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

_...They'd caused a general ruckus. The curious eyes of the other adepts and their cavaliers rested upon the black-robed Ninth. Gideon was discomfited to find the gaze of the bloodless Third twin on her and Harrowhark both, her pale eyes like sniper sights, her mouth exquisitely chill. There was something in her stare that Gideon disliked on impact, and she held that gaze until the pale head was dropped- _

-and then things went funny.

There wasn't a _moment_ , exactly. There was simply a sensation of blue-ness, as if the whole universe had been briefly awash in indigo. There was a feeling of something, somewhere, going "twang", of something fundamental, something vitally important, being torn free and left to flap madly in the breeze.

No one else seemed to notice.

Behind the smoked glass of her spectacles, Gideon Nav's eyes moved to the space behind the Third house's gargoyle lady. For a moment, she felt herself trying to go cross-eyed as the thing that her eyes saw and the thing that her brain remembered clashed violently, and again she felt suddenly unmoored, adrift. 

As she reeled inwardly, the rest of the eyes on the platform turned to look as well.

There was another ship. A tenth ship, a shuttle like the rest. Why was that so surprising? Gideon distinctly remembered seeing it land. She remembered that the doors had opened, and the people inside had walked out, plain as anything. The feeling that she was seeing them just now, for the first time, was just... some kind of inverted _déjà vu_ , probably.

Three women stood there, a few yards behind the Third House's entourage. They bore up remarkably well under the sudden, silent staring. The one in the middle in particular. Somehow she conspired to give Gideon the feeling that she was staring down everyone at once. And winning.

She was tall, and thin, and extremely old, but there was nothing of the ghastly decreptitude of Crux or the aged weathering of Aiglamene there. She was sharp as a flint, with a hard, concrete expression on her heavily-lined face and her skinny arms folded over her chest as she stared down her nose at the rest of those assembled. She wore a long black dress and cloak, but they weren't like Harrow's black dress and robes. They were /working/ clothes, old and worn, well-maintained but very, very aged. Underneath the hem of the dress, Gideon could just make out a pair of ridiculously heavy black boots.

And there was the hat. It was impossible not to see the hat.

They _all_ wore hats, come to it. Black hats, with broad brims and high, conical points. Somehow, they drew the eye. They weren't impressive hats. They might have looked, in Gideon's opinion, absolutely fucking ridiculous on anybody else - but, somehow, on these three, they kind of worked.

The silence stretched on. After a while, Teacher cleared his throat.

"Ah," he said. For the first time, he sounded slightly uncertain. "More visitors? I'm afraid that we weren't-" 

He paused, looking faintly nervous now, and lifted one hand to tap at his bearded chin with a fingertip. "But no," he said, more quietly. "No, we _were_ , weren't we? I should have known- honestly, it's to be expected-"

"Who _are_ they?"

This was the radiant Third twin, who had shifted in place slightly, turning towards the newly-arrived trio. Her beautiful eyes were narrowed in suspicion, and the oily man who had arrived with her had his hand on the hilt of his rapier now. Gideon recognized the shift towards a ready stance in his posture. 

"Who _are_ they?" the Third twin said again. She was looking at Teacher now, her expression pure ice. "We were clearly told that this was a gathering of the Houses. All of the Nine are already in attendance. What-"

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it, dear?" said a bright little voice. "You're the Nine. That'd make us the Tenth, wouldn't it? Stands to reason."

This was the second of the new arrivals. She, like the first, was astonishingly old, and dressed in black with a tall, pointy hat atop her head. Unlike the first, who was all sharp angles and a stare that hit like a hammer blow, she was short and round, with a face like a friendly old apple and a mouth with, it seemed, only one tooth to call its own. Her hair was a mass of untidy white curls, and she smiled like a jolly pumpkin as she waggled her stubby fingers at the Third. 

"Don't mind us, lovelies," she said happily. "You'll hardly notice us at all, I'm sure."

"We have never been ones to put ourselves forward," said the tall one. If the short, round one's voice was all warmth and good cheer, her voice was winter itself. 

"That's right," said the short one. "That's right. We'll be quiet as little mouses, us. No need to make a fuss."

Something moved down by her feet. Gideon was shocked to see a small, gray-furred animal, covered in scars and with one ear nearly gone, peeking out from behind her legs.

"Ridiculous," said another voice. All eyes turned to the Second House. One of them - it might have been the necromancer, or it might have been the cavalier, Gideon couldn't tell, their uniforms and bearing were too similar - was standing ramrod-straight, entire body practically vibrating with tension. "There _is_ no Tenth House. What is this mockery? How did you get here?"

"The same as you," said the tall one. (Gideon was impressed by the degree to which the Second House could maintain its apparent indignation under that stare.) "We was invited. So we came."

"Impossible," scoffed the Second. "Only the Necrolord has the authority to extend this invitation."

"Then I'd think that must be who invited us, wouldn't you?" said the short one. Her good cheer seemed as absolutely unshakable as the tall one's impossible disdain. "And what's that make you, questionin' the good Necrolord's judgment, hmm?"

"It is true," said Teacher. His voice was still quiet, and one hand was stroking worriedly through his short, neat beard. "There was an invitation. I distinctly remember- yes." He straightened, eyes brightening as he appeared to find his certitude. "Yes. Welcome, then, scions of the far-flung and mysterious Tenth!" 

He strode forward, both hands outstretched, a warm smile restoring itself to his features as he approached the trio. The last of them - a girl, Gideon was shocked to see, even younger than the two horrible teens, and wearing a faded green dress beneath her black hat - shrunk back slightly, as though attempting to hide herself behind the iron wall that was the tall one's presence. The other two didn't flinch. The opposite, in fact - as Teacher approached, the short one reached out and clasped one of his hands in both of her own wrinkled ones, shaking vigorously.

"Oh, we're just pleased as punch to be here, believe me," she said happily. "But we should think about gettin' ourselves indoors, eh? It's a posh place you've got here. No point in all standin' about out of doors. Catch our deaths of cold afore too long."

Teacher managed to extricate himself from her grip. This time, his smile didn't waver. "Of course, of course," he said. "But, ah, if it would not be too forward of me to ask - the invitations were not particularly specific, you see - if I might trouble you all for your names?" 

"And your titles." This was the Second, again, still standing so stiffly at attention that she might have been cast from marble. "If you _are_ the representatives of this... Tenth House-" the words dripped acid "-then who is your necromancer? Your cavalier primary? And by what special consideration do you bring a third?"

The short one pulled a face. "Necromancy? Eurgh. Dearie, I'll thank you not to-"

"Dame Esmerelda Weatherwax and Dame Gytha Ogg," said a new voice. "The Necromancer-Mistresses of the Tenth House."

The young girl had stepped out from behind the tall one again. She had the distinct look of someone who was nervous, but making herself go through with something anyway. Her narrow chin was outthrust, and her tiny fists balled up beside her hips, very slightly raised. 

"Mistresses?" murmured the short one. "Oh, my-"

"And I," the girl continued, "am Tiffany Aching, Cavalier Primary of the Coven."

There was a stir, then. The Second openly scoffed. The Third looked disbelieving, the Eighth affronted, Dulcinea as though she had never seen anything so fascinating in all her days, Protesilaus as though he had never given fewer shits. Gideon distinctly heard someone say "ridiculous", and someone else mutter "I don't believe-" and, weirdly, _"crivens!"_ , but Teacher didn't seem to be about to lose his composure again, and simply clapped his hands together like a delighted schoolmaster.

"Wonderful, wonderful," he said, without so much as a trace of irony. "It's a delight to have you all here, O scions of the Tenth. A bit of a surprise, a bit unexpected, but if the Lord above Lords so wills it, then who are we to question? Welcome to the House of the King Undying. And now-" this, with his voice slightly raised to carry above the din "-if you would all follow me..."

The Ninth was the last of the Houses to follow in the procession through the doors into the magnificent ruin of Canaan House. Just before she followed the rest through the doors, Gideon Nav turned to cast a glance over her shoulders, back towards the ten shuttles arrayed on the landing platform. For the briefest, slightest, barest of moments, she could have sworn that she saw three more figures standing there, three gray robes in the center of the platform- but then Harrowhark poked her hard in the ribs, and she blinked, and they were gone.


	2. Chapter 2

_ "Sir Magnus, behold my coup!" she said, and she gestured to Gideon. _

_ This did not produce a susurrus of respectful murmurs, as she had obviously hoped. The dress-uniform cavalier stood to attention, but her gaze was blank and cool. The Fourth girl dropped form and rocked backward on her heels, whistling noisily in fascinated horror. The cavalier of the Third raised his eyebrows and took on an expression of dismay, as though his necromancer had just presented them with a leper. Only Magnus gave her a genial, if slightly bewildered, smile. _

_ "Princess Corona, trust you to nab Gideon the Ninth!" he said- _

-but Gideon's eyes were already drawn away. The weedy little Tenth cav was sitting in the most distant corner of the room, slightly hunched over, as if attempting to shield herself from attention. _God_ she was young. Was she even a teen? She might have just been a mature-looking twelve. She was so _small_. The hat on her head was almost comically outsized, and the green dress she wore under her cloak just made her look like a child playing dress-up. Not a muscle on her.

But she was staring. That was what Gideon had noticed first. Not the fact that she was tiny, but the fact that those eyes were sharp as knives, and without an ounce of fear in them. Something else. Anger, maybe. 

_ "Magnus, do not tell anyone this story-" _

Gideon looked away. Magnus the Fifth was being incredibly embarrassing, which Gideon was beginning to realize that he was very good at. She was also beginning to suspect that it wasn't nearly as accidental as it seemed.

Then Princess Coronabeth clapped her elegant hands together. "I want to see a match," she said. "Come - _Gideon_ the Ninth, right? - why don't you try Sir Magnus instead?"

There was a snort from elsewhere in the room, and Gideon turned to see the Cohort cavalier leaning, without much actual relaxation, against a wall. "With all due respect, Princess," she said, "you've /seen/ Sir Magnus fight. We've /all/ seen Sir Magnus fight. If we are to engage in these show matches, why not make them as interesting as possible?"

She turned, and gave the Tenth cavalier a pointed stare. She stared back, and Gideon was suddenly struck by the fact that she didn't seem to carry any weapon at all. 

There was a moment's quiet. Then the tiny Tenth girl said, "I'm not that kind of a fighter."

It wasn't an embarrassed statement. It wasn't even hesitant. It was blunt and unapologetic, and the girl's expression did not waver as she said it. 

Another snort from the Second. "I'll bet," she said, upper lip curling faintly. "Not much of a fighter at all, from the look of you. Have you ever so much as touched a sword in your life?"

"Yes." Again, no hesitation in the girl's voice. She was still sitting a bit hunched, but her expression never wavered.

"What kind?" snapped the Second.

"A big one."

There was a moment's silence, and then a disdainful laugh from the other side of the room, where the greasy Third cavalier wasn't even attempting to disguise his mockery. "Well," he said. "Tomb-maidens and uneducated peasant girls. I must say, I'm not much impressed with the showings of the Ninth or the Tenth, at this point."

From the corner of her eye, Gideon saw the girl's expression bristle, their hackles going up in unison. "We can take care of ourselves," she said.

(What was that, at the edge of hearing? Something like whispering? Gideon glanced around, behind the glasses, but saw nothing.)

"I'm sure," drawled the Third cavalier. Gideon felt her loathing of him and his pompous little outfit growing by the moment. "Just as I'm sure those two old crones you brought with you aren't completely out of their depth. Honestly, it's embarrassing-"

"Naberius," said Princess Corona sharply. "That's enough."

But the girl - Tiffany, Gideon remembered abruptly, her name was Tiffany - was already standing. "Misstresses Weatherwax and Ogg," she said, her voice now cold and clipped in addition to its bluntness, "are worth any five of you put together."

"Oh- _ho_ ," said Naberius, a scornful little smile creeping across his features. "So there's fire in her yet. Perhaps the Tenth does have some backbone to it after all."

" _Naberius_ ," snapped the princess.

"It's fine, Your Majesty," said Tiffany. "He's trying to bait me to fight, but that's what we're all here for, isn't it? It's what cavaliers do. They fight."

"Quite," sneered Naberius. 

"Then let's," said Tiffany.

There was a brief sensation of... something. Like a breeze, at ankle-height, and the barest, faintest possible sound of pattering feet. Gideon glanced down, but there was nothing, and no one else appeared to have heard.

"You haven't even got a weapon," said Naberius disdainfully.

Tiffany reached behind herself, into the little corner of the bench that she'd been sitting in. When her hand came back, she was holding a heavy, cast-iron frying pan, faintly rusted, deeply scratched from long years of use. Behind her smoked glasses, Gideon blinked. There was no fucking way there had been enough room for that thing to have been there a moment ago.

"I've got this," said Tiffany, without looking away from Naberius' face.

There was a chorus of sounds from the others in the room. Some of them were disbelieving. Some of them were disdainful. At least one of them was mildly impressed - the teenager, Jeannemary, was grinning broadly at the scene - but the loudest was from Magnus.

"But my girl," he said, looking astonished, "you can't possibly be serious."

"I'm always serious," answered Tiffany levelly.

"But that's not a weapon," Magnus protested. 

"It's always suited me fine," said Tiffany. Then Gideon twitched and looked down at the sensation of a floor-level breeze again, and Tiffany sighed. When Gideon looked up, she was twitching her cloak aside. There was a small, rusted sword at her belt where Gideon was _damn_ sure there hadn't been one a minute ago, looking suspiciously like one of those taken from the racks in the other room. 

Tiffany sighed and drew it, holding it listlessly in her off hand. "But if you insist. Will this do?"

"I-" Magnus was looking increasingly bewildered now. "I- well, it's hardly _orthodox_ -"

"The Tenth," Tiffany said archly, "has its own traditions, Sir Magnus."

"Does it now?" said Magnus helplessly.

"Yes. We believe very firmly in making do with what we have."

"Well, I- then- well- I _suppose_ -"

"Challenge accepted," said Naberius. He was smirking openly now, and before anyone else could speak, he had practically leapt into the makeshift arena. In a flash, his weapons were in his hands - a beautifully balanced rapier in the main, an ornate knife in the off. "Let's see, then, what the Tenth House is made of."

Tiffany gave another sigh, and then took a few steps into the arena. "I assume there are rules," she said. Still no embarrassment. 

That got Naberius' self-satisfied expression to finally slip. "You must be joking," he said, looking truly affronted now. "Or is the Tenth House that hopelessly degenerative?"

"Are there rules or are there not?" Tiffany said patiently. She hadn't taken up a stance yet. She was just standing there, with the rusted sword in the wrong hand and the frying pan in the other. 

"To the first touch." This was the Cohort cav again; Princess Corona was standing aside, perfect mouth slightly agape. Gideon didn't really blame her. This was /wild/. "Clavicle to sacrum." Then, after a moment's consideration, "No leaving the arena. If you're disarmed, the match is also over."

"Fine." Tiffany continued to stand there, glaring up at the much-taller Naberius, not even attempting to take any sort of stance. "And we start when...?"

"Oh, for god's sake," said Naberius, looking exasperated now. "This is laughable."

"You start with your backs to one another," said the Second cavalier. "Take seven paces, and begin on my mark."

"Fine," said Tiffany again. Then, to Naberius: "Ready?"

He gaped at her for a moment, then straightened. "Fine."

They walked.

Gideon watched Tiffany's face as she marched away from the Third duelist. She wasn't even really attempting to hold the sword. It was just kind of dangling from her fingertips. The grip on the frying pan was firmer, but that wasn't a /weapon/, and she still wasn't holding it like one. She kind of had to admire the girl's obvious guts, but this just seemed stupid.

...Why did it look as though she was muttering to herself as she walked?

"Begin," said the Second.

It was immediately apparent that Naberius Tern was immensely skilled. For all his ego, he did obviously have the skill to back it up; the defensive stance he took was so perfect that Aiglamene would have wept joyful tears at the sight of it. He began moving immediately, circling around the arena in measured steps, eyeing his opponent.

Tiffany, for her part, didn't move. She just stood there, glaring at him, still not even adopting an approximation of a dueling stance. The room was completely silent, save for the sound of Naberius' slow, measured movements.

"Well?" he snapped, after a moment. "Weapons up, girl. Or did your House genuinely just send an untrained girl to answer the Emperor's summons?"

Tiffany frowned. "I'm not a child," she said. 

"Oh?" Naberius' voice was openly mocking now. "Then what are you?"

"A witch."

"Ha! A little girl with delusions of necromancy," sneered the man. He had nearly circled around to Tiffany's back, now, but she still hadn't moved. 

"I didn't say I was a necromancer," Tiffany said, with the tones of an exasperated schoolteacher. "I said I'm a witch. And you haven't got any idea what that means."

"Really, now?" There was actual anger in the words. "And what, pray tell, _does_ it mean?"

"It means you should pay more attention to your footing," said Tiffany.

Naberius blinked, and then-

-he must have put a foot wrong. A part of the stone floor must have been slicker than it looked, and his stance must not have been as perfect as it appeared, and he must have overcommitted to the movement to a comical degree. Perhaps he had been about to lunge at Tiffany as if to tackle her, or something, and his leg just went _out_ and he went _down_ and then both of his beautiful weapons were skittering across the stones, away from his hands, and Tiffany turned and stepped over his sprawling, suddenly graceless limbs and didn't even really point the sword at him, just kind of _dangled_ it in his direction, and said, "Are you done?"

Gideon blinked. So did everyone else. After a few breathless seconds, the Second cavalier said, "Match to the Tenth."

Naberius looked as though he might explode. Everyone else simply looked stunned. Everyone, that was, except Tiffany, who simply dropped the rusted sword on the stones beneath her feet, turned, and walked away, towards the corner where she had originally been sitting. Her boots made heavy clumping noises with every step.

Naberius scrambled to his feet. "I demand a rematch," he hissed. "You cheating little-"

"I already told you that I'm a witch," Tiffany said, as she seated herself again and smoothed out her green dress. "And we have our own weapons. It's not my fault that you got overconfident. You should have been paying more attention."

"You- you-" Naberius looked apoplectic. Gideon was fairly sure that she could see a vein throbbing in his temple. "You little-"

" _Babs_ ," snapped Princess Corona. Immediately, the man drew himself up, his expression paling. "We are _leaving_ ," she continued. "Now. And we will _talk_ about this."

"I- Princess, you must have seen-" Babs grated out, between his teeth. 

"Oh, yes," she said. "I saw. Now _come_." 

She snapped her fingers. Immediately, Naberius leapt to follow her like a dog coming to heel, only pausing to scoop up his scattered weapons as they made to leave. Corona paused only for a moment at the doorway, glancing back at the others in the room.

"I apologize," she said archly, "for the behavior of my cavalier. To all of you. And particularly to you, Tenth." 

And then they were gone. For a few seconds, there was continued, awkward silence. Tiffany simply sat on the bench with her frying pan in her lap, looking blank. 

Eventually, the embarrassment broke. It was Jeannemary who moved first, sidling away from Magnus the Fifth and towards the bench. Gideon couldn't hear what she whispered to the younger girl, but Tiffany gave a grim little smile in response, and Jeannemary seated herself beside her to continue the conversation _sotto voce_. A moment later, Gideon became aware of Magnus the Fifth approaching her.

"Well," he said, in his awkward voice. "That was... something, wasn't it, Ninth? I imagine that'll be a good story to tell, a few years from now. But, in the meantime, since you're here... I don't suppose I could trouble you for a match? Just to keep my hand in, you know."

Silently, Gideon nodded, but she wasn't really thinking about it. Even when she stepped into the ring, and Magnus raised his weapons opposite her, her brain was still processing. For just a moment, just a single, brief moment before Naberius fell, she had _thought_ she had seen the briefest flash of something blue and red, down near his foot, moving _very_ fast.

And, as she looked over at Magnus, she thought she could make out, at the very edge of hearing, the sound of a very small voice coming from very far away.

_ "Crivens, but I was glad ta see the smile wiped off tha' lavvy head's face." _


	3. Chapter 3

_ The only thing left of the monster was a big chunk of pelvis, atomizing slowly into sand. There was a pleasing overhead  _ beep _ and the door to Response whooshed open - and remained open, letting through a Harrow so wet with sweat that her hood was stuck to her forehead. Gideon was distracted by the pelvis as the sand crumbled and parted to reveal a gleaming black box. Its lead-coloured screen ticked up - 15 percent; 26 percent; 80 percent - until it swung open with a soft  _ click _ to reveal nothing more interesting than -  _

-than nothing.

The box was empty. Gideon stared at it for a moment, feeling thoroughly unimpressed, before Harrow gave an anguished cry and swept down upon it, scooping the tiny thing up into her shaking hands.

  
  
“No,” she was saying. “No, no, no, no no no  _ no _ -”

“I don’t get it,” said Gideon dumbly, and felt dumb saying it. “All this for just an empty box? What’s the point?”

  
  
Harrowhark rounded on her, her sweat-streaked face a sculpted monument to the union of fury and despair. 

_ “It’s not supposed to be empty, you dolt,” _ she hissed. “There should be a  _ key _ . There should be  _ something _ . But you were- we were-  _ I was _ too slow.” Her grip on the box was so tight that Gideon might have worried it would break, if she didn’t know for a fact that Harrowhark Nonagesimus had the approximate grip strength of a toddler. A very powerfully sedated toddler, at that.

Harrow’s eyes moved downward, away from Gideon’s face, towards the empty vessel in her hands. “I knew it,” she muttered. By the sound of it, she was talking more to herself than to Gideon. “I  _ knew _ it. I shouldn’t have gone to that dinner. I shouldn’t have wasted so much  _ time. _ ”

Gideon shouldered her sword, a twinge of something unfamiliar gnawing uncomfortably at the back of her brain. She had never before seen Harrowhark Nonagesimus looking genuinely distraught, or uncertain. 

Well. She  _ had _ . But not for a long time, now. 

“Oh, come on,” she said, trying, amazed at herself for the effort, to put something like warmth and reassurance into her voice. “It wasn’t that long. Not like anybody could have gotten that much of a head-start on us just from that. And everybody else was there, too, so it’s not like any of them could have been using the time-”

“Then we should have been,” Harrow said sharply. Her eyes came up again, and Gideon had to stop herself from physically recoiling at the sharpness there. “ _ Everything _ depends on this, Gideon Nav. We cannot afford to waste time. No longer. Never again. I do not know whether it was Palamedes Sextus or Mistress Weatherwax that overtook us, but they shall never repeat it.”

She didn’t sneer or snarl as she said it. Her expression was  _ almost _ neutral. But the corners of her mouth had moved, just slightly, and somehow the result made Gideon shiver.

She hid the motion by sheathing her sword and saying, “So you’re convinced it was one of them, then.”

“Obviously.” Harrow’s face was as motionless as a death mask as she shoved the empty box into some secret inner pocket of her robes.

Gideon frowned and folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t see why you’re so hung up on the Tenth here,” she said. “I mean, the girl’s fast and obviously has some sort of skill, but she’s just a kid. I can’t see her taking  _ that _ thing on.” 

Harrow made an animal sound, turned, and started for the door. Her arms actually flapped as she did so. If Gideon hadn’t known exactly how overstressed the little goblin would have to be to resort to such physical displays, she might have laughed. The long robes made her look like some sort of bat.

But she wasn’t about to let her run off and trap herself in another bone cocoon, either, and moved to fall into step behind her necromancer. 

“Everyone here is dangerous, Griddle,” she was saying. Now her voice  _ was _ a snarl. “ _ Everyone _ . We are all here as the best and brightest that our Houses have to offer. Palamedes Sextus is an established threat. I  _ know _ how dangerous he is. The Tenth is an unknown quantity. I haven’t the faintest idea what they are capable of. But their cavalier bested Naberius the Third through some unknown means, and the other two are  _ clever _ .”

“Are they?” Gideon remembered her previous run-ins with the elderly Mistresses of the Tenth. The short, round one, the one named Ogg, was always around, it seemed. She had apparently set up shop in the kitchens, and spent most of the time at Canaan House cooking and chattering harmlessly with anyone who passed. She’d set up some kind of makeshift distillery as well, and the Fifth’s anniversary dinner had been supplied with some sort of drink that she claimed was made from something called “apples”. Or mostly apples, anyway. One sip of it had almost put Gideon on the floor, and Harrow had refused to touch it.

She seemed cheerful and harmless, to Gideon. There didn’t appear to be much to her, honestly; she just sat and talked and stroked the fur on that huge, smelly, gray thing she called a cat. Gideon had attempted to pet it once, out of curiosity, and the cuts on the back of her hand still stung. 

The other one… the other one, she could buy. It was the eyes, mainly. Mistress Weatherwax could stare hard enough to drill through concrete. She didn’t speak much. Gideon had spotted her, once or twice, roaming the hallways with the young cavalier in tow. Somehow, she made the shabby black workman’s cloak she wore look every bit as regal as Harrow’s full ceremonial regalia. 

“Yes,” said Harrow. “They are. And Gytha Ogg is good at hiding it, which is even more dangerous. The other Houses have all been talking with her like she’s their oldest friend since we got here. There’s no telling how much she’s heard.”

She hadn’t paused in her walking. They had swept out of the Imaging and Response chamber at speed, and returned to the hub chamber. Without so much as a break in her stride, Harrow turned towards another one of the hallways-

-and stopped when she heard the screams.

They were coming from the corridor leading back towards the hatch. There was definitely more than one, and they were growing louder by the moment, but at this distance the sound was too distorted by echo and dust to make out any words. 

Gideon looked towards her necromancer. Her necromancer looked back. 

Silently, they turned, and set off at a run.

Gideon had to check her speed as she went. Harrowhark Nonagesimus was not a sprinter at the best of times, and her robes were slowing her further. She had to fight to keep pace even at Gideon’s slowed pace, and Gideon had to fight herself from speeding further. The screams were not stopping.

At least one of them was a woman’s voice, high and shrill, though that had stopped now. The rest were voices that Gideon didn’t immediately recognize, bellows that rebounded from the walls of the catacombs around them, echoing in her ears.   
  


_ “Nac Mac Feegle!” _

_ “The Wee Free Men!” _

_ “Nae king! Nae quin! Nae laird! Nae master! WE WILLNA’ BE FOOLED AGAIN!” _

There were other sounds, too. Something like screeching metal, something like rapid impacts, something like wet tearing. It seemed to be crescendo-ing as they approached, becoming a furious torrent of sound that threatened to deafen her. Her sword was in her hand, and she found herself cursing the loss of her two-hander again as she rounded the corner to the ladder-

-and saw the battle.

For a moment, her brain short-circuited itself at the sight. The small chamber where the ladder had once been was full to bursting. There were two people sprawled against the wall opposite Gideon - Abigail Pent, clutching the limp form of her husband to her as she stared, wild-eyed - but, mostly, there was the construct.

Or the part of a construct, anyway. The thing had come from one of the other hallways, its bulk filling the doorway entirely. What occupied the actual room was a sort of massive tendril of bone and ligament, writhing madly as…

...as a horde of tiny, screaming, blue-skinned, red-haired men, each no more than six inches tall, absolutely goddamn thrashed it to pieces.

They were  _ everywhere _ . They clung to every knobbly protrusion on the construct, hammering at it with fists and feet and what looked like very small broadswords. They covered the floor and rebounded off the walls as the tendril’s thrashing sent them flying through the air, only to bounce off one of the walls, hit the floor, and immediately start up running, only to fling themselves back onto it with a seemingly endless fury. Every one was screaming something different. Every one was apparently absolutely, unshakably determined to dismantle the thing in front of them.

But they weren’t having it all their own way. The attack was relentless, but so was the construct. As Gideon watched, pieces of bone that its opponents had torn off seemed to fly back through the air, reattaching themselves to the whole. Restored, it swung itself upward, then slammed its bulk down onto the chamber of the floor with a deafening, crunching  _ thud _ . When it lifted itself away, some of the tiny blue things beneath it sprung immediately back into the fray - but some didn’t, and it was the same when it shook itself, and a chaotic spray of bone spikes, longer than Gideon’s sword, scattered throughout the room.

Gideon ducked at that, and instinctively swung around to catch Harrow up in one arm and throw her bodily back behind the turn of the hallway. It wasn’t an elegant maneuver - Gideon basically ended up clotheslining her - but it got the job done. Only then, with Harrow crushed against the wall and with Gideon’s back between her and the construct, did she realize that Harrow had already broken out in a blood sweat.

Bewilderment and adrenaline were shouldered aside, just for a moment, by admiration. Harrow had reacted far quicker than Gideon, and hadn’t stopped just because she’d been basically body-slammed out of the room. Her expression was all furious concentration, and Gideon could see the blood beading actively - but she could also see, when she looked back over her shoulder, the construct shuddering, and starting to collapse.

It seemed to realize it, too. The fight had been something of a stalemate before, but the Ninth House was all about bones, and Harrowhark Nonagesimus  _ was _ the Ninth House. Huge chunks of it fell to the floor, and the length of it shuddered before withdrawing, with surprising speed, back through the corridor that it had emerged from. A few faint shouts followed it down the hallway as a handful of the blue men maintained their grip, but far more of them fell to the floor, scrabbled to their feet, and… continued fighting, mostly.

They kicked and bit and punched and crossed swords with one another for a few moments. Gideon watched them, gaping dumbly, until the incoherent war cries were replaced with something else - a high, keening, agonized sound.

“Waily!” one of them was shrieking. “Oh, waily waily! Attend, lads! Attend! The kelda’s fearful hurt!”

Gideon’s eyes followed the sound, and her heart leapt to her throat. Tucked against the wall of the chamber, just beside the door she and Harrow had emerged from, was the crumpled form of the tiny Tenth House cavalier.

Tiffany Aching was curled in upon herself, breathing in short, sharp gasps. Both of her hands were held in the air in front of her torso, fingers twitching as though unable to decide whether or not they should actually touch the two-foot bone spike that had been thrust through her stomach.

There was another one in her right leg, and her hat was some distance away, pinned to the wall by a third. Her hair spilled untidily over her pale face, and a thick, dark red was soaking through her dress as she trembled against the wall.

Gideon moved, releasing her grip on Harrow and moving to step forward. She wasn’t entirely certain what she intended to do, but she never got the chance to find out anyway. The moment she re-entered the chamber, the army of blue men surged forward, forming a rough battle line between her and Tiffany. Suddenly, Gideon found herself being menaced by a hundred tiny swords.

“Keep back, ye sleekit bastart,” said one of them. The voice was furious, but “one of them” was the best that Gideon could do for identification; they were all short, all blue, and all had flaming red hair. And something like a skirt around their waists. “Ye’ll nae touch the kelda, or I’ll gie ye sich a ki-”

_ “Oh noooo,” _ said another one. This voice was less angry, and more terrified. Gideon caught sight of one of the little blue things trying to shrink back behind the one that had spoken first.  _ “Rooob, it’s the hag.” _

“I can see it, ya daftie, I’m no’ blind,” snapped the first. His sword did not waver, but his eyes did move away from Gideon, who glanced aside to see Harrow stepping out from behind her. “But hag or no hag, they’ll no’ lay a finger on the kelda. No’ while we’re still kickin’.”

There was a chorus of vaguely affirmative shouts from the rest of the crowd, but Gideon could see more than a handful shrinking back as Harrow stepped forward. Her eyes swept over the horde, then moved to Tiffany. 

After a moment’s knife-edged silence, she said, “We cannot help her if you do not let us.”

“Oh, it’s help ye’re here ta give, izzit noo?” Gideon had to concentrate hard to make out the words through the accent, but the tone hadn’t changed. The voice was every bit as much of a naked blade as the sword. “And how’re we tae know ye weren’t the same as set yon beastie upon us tae begin with?”

_ “Rob.” _

Tiffany’s voice was choked, wet, barely audible, more a gasp than a word. But the moment she spoke, every single blue-faced head turned towards it, as though by magnetism. 

“Rob,” she panted. “Let… them.”

And that was all. It was all she could manage, apparently. Her hands stayed there, hovering in midair, fingers still twitching uncertainly, but she didn’t speak again. Her head didn’t lift. She didn’t uncurl. 

This time, when Harrow stepped forward, the blue bodies moved back, leaving her a path towards Tiffany. She took it, and knelt in front of the younger girl, hands moving towards the bone spikes, expression serious.

Gideon watched, entranced, until, a moment later, another sound caught her attention. She turned her head, looking upward towards the hatch as it was lifted aside. Immediately, Camilla Hect’s head emerged, peering down into the room. For a second, she made eye contact with Gideon through her smoked glasses. Then she vanished again, and Gideon heard murmured voices above.

“Rob.”

It was Tiffany again, and Harrow immediately answered with, “Don’t speak,” but the girl ignored her. She was still breathing in short, sharp bursts.

“Rob,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Go.”

“We’ll no’ leave ye, kelda,” said the one apparently called Rob firmly. He still had his sword in hand, held in a posture of definite readiness. 

“Go,” Tiffany repeated. “As. Your kelda.”

“Dinnae do this, Tiff,” Rob answered.  _ His _ voice was quiet now, too, a murmur dangerously close to terrified.

“As. Your kelda,” Tiffany repeated. “Go.”

“I-”

_ “Now.” _ The word was forced out, loud and sharp, and Tiffany groaned weakly in the aftermath, her hands finally falling to her sides. “Find… them. And stay. Quiet.”

There was the briefest, barest moment’s pause, during which the point of Rob’s sword twitched uncertainly. Then there was the sound of voices from above, and he snapped, “Ye heard the kelda, lads. Find the hag o’ hags. She’s sore needed.”

And then there was a blur, and an ankle-high breeze, and they were gone. Even the ones that had been left sprawled, motionless, on the floor, had vanished.

Gideon looked up again at the sound of footsteps on the ladder. Camilla Hect was descending, now, using only one hand. The other was gripping her sword, and she stopped a few rungs above the point where the ladder had been sheared off during the battle. 

“Ninth,” she said sharply. “Lady Pent. Miss Aching. Are you in immediate danger?”

“Not at the moment,” said Harrowhark sharply, without looking up from Tiffany. One of her fingertips touched the very end of the bone spike, as gingerly as possible. “But medical attention is required. Miss Aching is mortally wounded. I can remove the spike, but it would only worsen the bleeding. I have not yet had the time to assess the Fifth’s wounds, but I assume that they are likewise severe.”

“Lady Pent?” said Camilla.

“I’ll live,” said Abigail Pent. Gideon turned to see her lifting her head. There was another bone spike lodged in her shoulder, and her face was streaked with tears. But Magnus Quinn, slumped against her chest and with one of his wife’s wrapped around him, did not move. 

“And Sir Magnus?” Camilla added.

Abigail swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t hurry on his account,” she said. Her voice shook only slightly. “He’s already dead.”


End file.
